Hell Read Free Page B

any questions
because he never stops talking, which I later discover is a common trait among
lifers.
    Gordon is due
out in three years’ time and, although dyslexic, has taken an Open University
degree in English and is now studying for a law degree. He also claims to have
written a book of poetry, which I seem to recall reading something about in the Daily Mail .
    ‘Don’t talk to
me about the press,’ he screeches like a tape recorder you can’t switch off.
‘They always get it wrong. They said I shot my lover’s boyfriend when I found
them in bed together, and that he was an Old Etonian .’
    ‘And he wasn’t
an Old Etonian ?’ I probe innocently.
    ‘Yeah, course
he was,’ said Gordon. ‘But I didn’t shoot him, did I? I stabbed him seventeen
times.’
    I feel sick at
this matter-of-fact revelation, delivered with neither remorse nor irony.
    Gordon goes on
to tell me that he was twenty at the time, and had run away from home at the
age of fourteen, after being sexually abused. I shuddered, despite the sun
beaming down on me. I wonder just how long it will be before I’m not sickened
by such confessions. How long before I don’t shudder? How long before it
becomes matter-of-fact, commonplace?
    As we continue
our circumnavigation of the yard, he points out Ronnie Biggs, who’s sitting on
a bench in the far corner surrounded by geraniums.
    ‘They’ve just
planted those, Jeff,’ says Gordon. ‘They must have known you were comin ’.’ Again, he doesn’t laugh. I glance across to see a
sick old man with a tube coming out of his nose. A man who
doesn’t look as if he has long to live.
    Another
circuit, before I ask Gordon about a young West Indian who has his face turned
to the wall, and hasn’t moved an inch since I walked into the yard.
    ‘He killed his
wife and young daughter,’ says Gordon. ‘He’s tried to commit suicide three
times since they locked him up, and doesn’t talk to no one.’
    I felt
strangely compassionate for this double murderer as we pass him for a third
time. As we overtake another man who looks totally lost, Gordon whispers, ‘ That’s Barry George, who’s just been done for killing Jill Dando .’ I didn’t tell him that Jill was an old friend and
we both hail from Weston-super...
    Mare. For the first time in my life, I keep my counsel. ‘No
one in here believes he did it,’ says Gordon, ‘including the screws.’ I still
make no comment. However, George’s and my trial ran concurrently at the Old
Bailey, and I was surprised by how many senior lawyers and laymen told me they were
disturbed by the verdict. ‘I’ll bet he gets off on appeal,’ *
    Gordon adds as
another bell rings to indicate that our forty-five minutes of ‘freedom’ is up.
    Once again we
are all searched before leaving the yard, which puzzles me; if we didn’t have anything
on us when we came in, how could we have acquired anything while we were
walking around the yard? I feel sure there is a simple explanation. I ask
Gordon.
    ‘They’ve got to
go through the whole procedure every time,’ Gordon explains as we climb back up
the steps. ‘It’s the regulations.’
    When we reach
the third floor, we go our separate ways.
    ‘Goodbye,’ says
Gordon, and we never meet again.
    I read three
days later in the Sun that Ronald
Biggs and I shook hands after Gordon had introduced us.
11.45 am
    Locked back up
in my cell, I continue to write, only to hear the key turning before I’ve
completed a full page. It’s Ms Roberts, the Deputy
Governor. I stand and offer her my little steel chair. She smiles, waves a
hand, and perches herself on the end of the bed.
    She confirms
that the arrangements for my visit to the parish church in Grantchester to attend my mother’s funeral have been sanctioned by the Governor. They have
checked the police computer at Scotland Yard, and as I have no previous
convictions, and no history of violence, I am automatically a Category D prisoner,* which she explains is